Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 40

by Elizabeth Kay

small bald patch had erupted by her left temple. She shivered all the

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  time, constantly cradled in layers of jumpers and blankets and socks.

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  She had a cough that she couldn’t shake.

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  But I couldn’t admit any of this because I couldn’t stand to confront

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  that reality. And my mother knew that. She knew, too, that Emma

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  didn’t have the strength to be much better and that, at best, she was

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  suffering.

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  My mother danced her nails across the wooden armrest and then said:

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  “John?”

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  “Jonathan?” I asked.

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  “Tomorrow,” she replied.

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  She pointed toward the calendar hung on her wall. I had bought it

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  for her a few Christmases earlier, a generic calendar with dates but no

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  days, with photographs of flowers, a different image for each month.

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  She had been frustrated by her inability to remember significant

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  events— our birthdays, for example— and so we sat and filled in the

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  most important ones. Jonathan had been dead for a couple of years and

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  yet his dates were still my dates and I had written them in as though

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  they were my own.

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  I stood up and approached the calendar. Each morning, my mother’s

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  carer moved a small yellow sticker onto the day’s date. There was little

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  use knowing when the important moments would fall if she had no idea

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  where she stood.

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  The next day would have been Jonathan’s birthday.

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  I had forgotten.

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  In another life, I would have been preparing for weeks, if not for

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  months— with gifts and a cake and a card and balloons. I might have

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  booked a table at a nice restaurant or organized a surprise party. I

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  might have looked for wrapping paper that matched his personality—

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  decorated with bicycles or cricket bats or animals— or collected crois-

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  sants from the bakery.

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  And— even a couple of years ago— I would have been approaching

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  this day with lungs about to burst from the most insurmountable grief.

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  I would have been anxious and panicking, watching the days roll for-

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  ward, thinking of all the things I’d be doing if he were alive and the

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  things that I wasn’t because he was dead.

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  “Yes,” I said, wanting her to think that I’d remembered, that I al-

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  ready knew, because what sort of wife forgets her husband’s birthday.

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  “I’ll probably visit him. At the cemetery. First thing. Before I see Emma.

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  I’ll take some flowers, I think. Maybe a balloon. No, not a balloon.”

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  She nodded. “Dad?” she asked.

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  She sometimes— more often than not— forgot that he was no longer

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  a part of her life. She thought that he came to see her and, occasionally, 29

  she told me about his visits. She told me that he brought flowers, al-

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  though there were never any in her room that hadn’t been brought by

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  me, and that he had put up the shelves at home, although she had asked

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  him to for years and he never had. He was well, she said, and I knew

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  that he was, but that he was well some many miles away with some

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  other woman who was not my mother.

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  Once, when we’d been squabbling about our shared responsibility,

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  Emma suggested that I visited so regularly, not because this was my

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  mother and not because of some sense of familial duty, but because I

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  envied my mother’s ability to forget. She didn’t know that the person

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  she loved most was no longer around.

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  I tended to avoid having this conversation with my mother where

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  possible: I either ignored her questions or replied with something ter-

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  ribly vague, something that suggested that he might visit sometime

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  soon without actually making a promise to pass on a message or to pop

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  in and see him myself.

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  Perhaps she had never tried to remember my father’s absence. Per-

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  haps she was happy to forget.

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  “Marnie?” she asked instead, with a smile.

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  “She’s doing really well,” I said. “Audrey’s doing great, too. She had

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  a checkup a few weeks ago. She’s putting on plenty of weight. Although

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  I haven’t seen much of her these last few weeks. They seem to be

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  so busy.”

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  “Motherhood,” said my mother, and then she yawned, as though

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  that, too, was part of our conversation.

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  “I know,” I replied. “But friendships are important as well. I’ve been

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  thinking that I should surprise her.”

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  My mother nodded her approval enthusiastically.

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  There was a clatter from next door and then a frustrated groan as

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  my mother’s neighbor dropped something onto the floor. We heard the

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  fast slap of shoes on tiles and then two nurses rushed past the door to

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  assist.

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  “I thought I might make her dinner,” I continued. “Do you remem-

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  ber that we used to have dinner together once a week? I’m thinking I

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  should reinstate that. It would be nice to have a way to stay in touch.

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  What do you think?”

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  In other places, with other people, the absences were filled by other,

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  louder voices. But here mine was the only one.

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  “I’m thinking of leaving work early next Friday,” I said. “It’s fine, re-

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  ally. Everyone seems to be sneaking off after lunch, what with the

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  weather and them all wanting to get away for the weekend. We have

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  fewer people to answer the phones, but— so what? The phones are ring-


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  ing less because everyone everywhere has buggered off on holiday. Any-

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  way, I know that Marnie meets up with some other mothers at three

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  o’clock on Fridays— she makes time for that weekly commitment— so I 11

  know that she won’t be home. I’m planning to let myself in and cook

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  something incredible, something that even she will be impressed by.”

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  My mother frowned.

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  “I have a key,” I said. “So, no, don’t get the wrong idea. I wouldn’t be

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  breaking in.” I laughed and it felt awkward.

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  My mother began to shake her head.

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  “She gave it to me,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?”

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  “No,” she said, and her head shaking became more vigorous. “No.”

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  “Don’t be like that,” I said. “It’s a good idea. It’ll be a nice surprise.”

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  “A key,” she insisted.

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  “Yes, a key,” I said. My mother stopped shaking her head and stared

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  right at me.

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  I was the responsible adult in my family and yet she still occupied

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  this traditional omniscient mothering role with eyes that sharpened in

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  the way that only a mother’s can and a head tilt that demanded an-

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  swers. It took her weeks to accept that my father had really left— we

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  were sure he was bluffing— and when she finally did, she fell apart. He

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  sent us a postcard from a Thai beach explaining that he had a new

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  number now and that he wouldn’t be sharing it with us but that he

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  thought we ought to know that he was no longer ignoring our calls and

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  messages but simply not receiving them. She cried and drank too much

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  and shut herself in her bedroom, and I went in regularly to leave water

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  bottles on her bedside table and load microwave meals in the fridge.

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  She hadn’t been much of a mother then.

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  “It’s fine,” I said. “Don’t get all worked up.”

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  She slapped her hand against her wooden armrest, hard, and she

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  flinched, snapping it back against her chest, trying to shake out the pain.

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  “Stop that,” I said. “Stop that right now. What are you doing?”

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  She slapped her other hand against her face and then knocked her

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  beaker of water onto the floor from the standing tray beside her.

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  I jumped up and rushed over. “What’s wrong with you? Stop mak-

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  ing such a mess.”

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  “Key,” she hissed.

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  “I’ve only just been given it,” I said. Which was the truth. “This isn’t

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  about— This hasn’t got anything to do with— ”

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  A nurse paused in the doorway. My mother and I turned to stare.

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  “Morning, Jane,” she said to me. “Morning, Helen,” she said to my

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  mother. “What’s all this about?”

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  My mother slapped her hand against her thigh again. She stared at

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  me, wanting to say something but unable to, incapable of finding the

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  right words to express that want.

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  “What’s the matter now? Your daughter’s here to visit you. It’s a

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  lovely treat.” The nurse knelt on the floor in front of my mother and

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  took her hands, holding them together so that the slapping ceased.

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  “Key,” groaned my mother. “Key.”

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  The nurse looked at me and I shrugged.

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  “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what’s set her off,” I said.

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  “Oh, dear,” said the nurse, assuming responsibility for the chaos.

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  “Well, I’m afraid I’m not sure either. What on earth’s got her so upset?

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  Why don’t you take a few deep breaths, sweetie?” Her voice was sooth-

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  ing. “There you go. We’ll work this all out in just a minute, but let’s get 32N

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  you all sorted first. Because we’ve had a lovely week, haven’t we? The

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  hairdresser’s been in and this is looking glorious now, isn’t it?” She ges-02

  tured toward my mother’s hair with a wild sweep. “Did you tell Jane all

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  about that, did you? We’re all ready for visitors, aren’t we, so we are?”

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  “Key,” my mother insisted, still glowering at me.

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  “Right, all right, then,” said the nurse, sitting back on her heels.

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  “What do you need? You want a key? Do you want me to open the

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  window, is that it?”

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  She was thinking the worst of me: that I’d had the key all along, that

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  I was lying to her now.

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  My mother slammed her hand against the tray and the whole con-

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  traption toppled to the floor, sending her tissues, her water jug, and her 12

  framed picture spinning across the room.

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  The nurse looked at me. “Perhaps we should— ”

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  “That’s fine,” I said, standing up. “Not to worry. I’ll be back next

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  week. Perhaps a bad night’s sleep or something.”

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  I was losing it, losing control, making mistakes.

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  I had told her before that I didn’t have a key. And— worse than

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  that— I’d said that if I did have a key, I’d have used it to save his life.

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  Which was nonsense. I’d used that key to take his life, and she now

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  knew it.

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  I wasn’t lying now, but I’d lied before, and she’d caught me in my

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  own web.

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  “Dad?” said my mother, and I turned to face her. She was asking for

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  him because she needed him. She wanted him to step in, to be my fa-

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  ther. She knew not to trust me, and she knew that she was too weak,

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  too frail, to put this right.

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  “You know he’s not coming,” I said in my most sympathetic voice.

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  “We’ve talked about this. He doesn’t live here anymore. Do you re-

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  member? He hasn’t been part of our family for years.”

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  And then I left.
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  It was only afterward, on my way home, that I found myself wondering 04

  if she wasn’t reprimanding me at all, if she wasn’t trying to punish me,

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  if she wasn’t angry but afraid. Was she protecting me instead? Was she

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  warning me, telling me to be more careful, to watch myself, to not get

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  caught?

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  Because isn’t that what a mother would do?

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  She was frightened for me. She had looked inside me and seen that

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  something was broken, noticed my fractures, and acknowledged that I

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  might not be the very best version of myself. And, despite that, she still 12

  wanted to protect me.

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  Chapter Thirty- Eight

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  hen I arrived home, I called Emma, but she didn’t answer

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  and so I watched three movies and ordered takeout and

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  then went to bed. I called her again the following morning and there

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  was still no answer, and I thought nothing of it because she was proba-

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  bly asleep— she was so weak and often exhausted— and because she

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  often isolated herself when things felt overwhelming.

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  I called her again on Monday after work and she still didn’t answer,

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  and I decided to head over to her flat with some fruit— she’d occasion-

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  ally eat a few slices of apple, even in her very worst weeks— and to re-

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  mind her that I loved her and that I wanted to help.

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  At no point over those three days did I for a moment consider that

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  she was in trouble, in danger, that something was wrong.

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  I arrived and knocked on her door. There was no response.

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  The police later asked me if I could smell anything at this point and,

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  although I’ll never forget that repugnant stench, I didn’t notice it then.

 

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